How It Feels
by Cloasse
Summary: Sequel to Unit 2, Respond ASAP, Over: Where we see what happens to UFO following U2RAO.  Mention of Lestrade .


My heart never rests. Thump, _thump_, _**thump**_. Louder and louder until the beating against my ribcage is the only thing I can hear. So loud that I can't even hear the sirens approaching or my partner's worried calls.

I can't hear the radio, either.

"_Listen to me, kiddo, y'gotta keep your eyes open, okay? Keep looking at me!"_

I don't know what it is that he's saying... Is it something about my eyes? Are my eyes okay? Can I look at him?

No. My eyes aren't okay. They're lazy, they won't move when I tell them to and each blink is like dragging a dead weight for a mile despite the half an inch the lid has to travel. I can't see him.

"_Out of the way, Officer, you need to let us in. If you let us do our jobs, you'll be out of here in no time."_

Who was that? Green. Lots of green. And now there is something covering my face. Plastic, I can smell it. Oxygen. Oxygen with a water bottle, because there is condensation on the inside of the mask after a few strained breaths.

Something isn't right. My chest, it heaves and heaves but no air is coming to me. I'm just wasting energy.

There is a wrenching in my side, and I involuntarily cry out – they are looking at the knife wound, applying some form of local anaesthetic as they work on stemming the blood flow.

"_That looks nasty – five or six inches deep, I'd say."_

"_I saw the attacker take off -– I don't know where the knife is."_

"_Sir, you'll need to contact your Control and inform them of our current situation. We're going to bus your colleague into Casualty."_

I can't keep my eyes open. I'm trying so hard to breathe and listen and survive that I've no energy to keep them opening and closing with every passing breath. It burns. Every. Single. Time.

"_My name is Jessica, I'm a paramedic. We're going to take you to Casualty now. Can you tell me your name?"_

"_Lestrade…"_

The word came out with a guttural sound. I could feel a slick trail of copper slipping out of the corner of my mouth and down towards my ear, drawn there by gravity and the slope of my cheek.

"_Her name is Lestrade?"_

"_No. Our Control's name is Lestrade. She's… er…"_

"_Are they intimate? Or is she delusional, Officer, I need to know?"_

"_No! No… She's not delusional; they're living together and everything."_

Delusional? Me? Don't be silly. I'm just a little tired, a little sleepy and it feels so warm here…

"_You need to stay awake, Officer, can you do that for me? Open your eyes! Officer, can you open your eyes?"_

No.

In a private hospital room, there are four very simple pieces of furniture to deal with upon awakening from sedation. The first thing you notice is the bed, just a few sheets of plywood underneath a somewhat starchy sheet.

The next thing you notice is probably the unobtrusive cabinet settled just a few metres away, usually laden with gifts or flowers, that contains any of the personal effects that you had on or with you when you were brought into the hospital, plus any clothing or toiletries that a friend or family member brought in for you.

Of course, that which comes after this would be the medical equipment you're hooked up to. That's right, the IV, the blood pressure, heart rate and pulse monitor that sits to the left, beeping away to itself like an irritating little alarm clock that just won't shut up.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Finally, there's the visitor's chair. It's an uncomfortable, strict chair that forces someone to sit upright within it and almost always causes some degree of back pain if sat in for long periods of time. Unfortunately, you're just unlucky if you wake up and there is no one sitting beside you, feverishly waiting for you to open your eyes and recognise them for the silent vigil they've held for the past eight days.

When I woke up, there wasn't anybody sitting there for me. I knew that someone had been there –- there was an overnight bag that I didn't recognise, and a jacket draped over the back of the chair –- but where they were was the real question.

"Holy _shit_."

Then there was the pain. Dull throbbing, not occasional, but constant. Not to mention that the morphine that was no doubt being pumped into me seemed to have worn off.

That's the only thing about being in hospital –- what you always notice before everything else is how it feels.


End file.
